


Things that Go Bump in the Night Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting in a car crash was bad enough, but the only point of sancutary is a creepy house, through a grave yard and did I mention it's raining?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things that Go Bump in the Night Affair

    

 

 

It must have been raining the night he was born, Illya Kuryakin decided.  For all the times the stuff had made his life miserable, wet, and generally rotten, he still found nothing more calming and relaxing than the steady, drumming rhythm of the drops—like a heartbeat.  It always brought back memories of his childhood in Russia, the woods of Kiev, the warm laughing people of his homeland, his parents and siblings.  Napoleon joked with him about it, as according to his horoscope-reading partner, Illya was a water sign, so it made perfect sense to him

 

He smiled and let the 'slip-slop' of the windshield wipers lull him into a near hypnotic state.  By not changing his stretched-out position, he did not alert Napoleon of his wakefulness.  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, but Illya wasn't quite ready to take over driving just yet.  He wanted to savor the rain for a little while longer.

 

A sudden jolt rammed him against the passenger door as Napoleon yelled something, but Illya couldn't tell what he said or even which language Napoleon used.  Illya had smacked his head against the window and was busy coping with the pain.

 

Eventually, it subsided into a dull throb, and Illya blinked, looking over at a concerned Napoleon.

 

"Napoleon, what happened?  Did you know you're all wet? What did you hit?"

 

"Glad to know you're not seriously hurt.  Your thoughts are as organized as always."  Napoleon grinned, his features shadowed by the dome light.  He pushed aside a lock of blond hair on Illya's head.  "You're not bleeding," he announced, shifting back to his side of the car.  "To answer your question, I don't know what happened.  I thought we had a blow-out, but all the tires are fine.  You should see the front axle though.  It's bent nearly in half, like we hit a boulder or something."

 

"Was there anything in the road?"

 

"My dear Illya, I am not in the habit of running over things, rocks or otherwise."  Napoleon replied drily, trying to smooth his hair down into some sense of calm.  "And I certainly don't plow UNCLE cars into something.  Mr. Waverly would have me leading shrub planting expeditions in Iceland.”

 

"Sorry."  Illya struggled into a sitting position which proved difficult considering the cant of the car.  "We have a choice of walking to the nearest gas station..."

 

“Illya, I’ve been driving for nearly three hours, and there is no sign of civilization out here.  No other cars, nothing.”

 

"Or we can sit here and wait for help to arrive."  Illya tapped his chest, indicating his communicator.  "I assume you have called for help."

 

"I tried but couldn't get through.  The storm must be electrical or something.

The sky lit up a fierce blue, and Illya nodded.  "Or something.  Well, I guess we sit tight and wait.  At least it's dry in here."

 

"Not for long.  We're teetering on the edge of an irrigation canal or something.  One good sneeze could send us over." The car shifted slightly as if to illustrate his point.  “I think it might just be time to take our chances on the road.”   He climbed out, shivering, "East is that way.  If we start walking at a good clip, we should reach the Washington D.C. office by Christmas."

 

"Funny, you should try for a spot on Johnny Car…”  As Illya climbed out of the car, his voice was drowned out by an enormous crack which split the night like a gunshot. Without warning, an overhanging branch dropped with a crash, the impact sufficient to send their car into the water-filled ditch.  As they watched it sink, gurgling, beneath the surface, Illya continued, "And again the Solo luck saves us from an untimely death. Have I thanked you recently for that, Napoleon?" 

 

“Package deal,” Napoleon said, and pointed.  "Let's try this way." Napoleon took off at a brisk pace, and Illya limped into step beside him. "You’re limping.  Are you all right?"  His partner studied him, and Illya thought for a long moment. He didn't remember hitting it, but his left leg was certainly sore and felt as if he had a ten pound weight tied to it. 

 

"Must have banged it in the car or something."  He shrugged it off and pulled his jacket closer about him.  The wind tore at their clothing, and the rain pelted them.  “We have to find shelter, Napoleon.”

 

“Agreed.  Let’s see what the Solo luck brings this way.”

 

They walked for a long time in silence except for the tremendous wail of the storm.  Never had Illya heard thunder so loud, seen lightning so blinding, or struggled with wind so powerful.  It felt like they were trying to navigate through a hurricane.  A funnel cloud was about the only thing he hadn’t seen so far.  He’d slowed down, his leg holding him back, which made no sense to him.  Had it been damaged in the car, he should have felt it immediately.  And yet his head, which had impacted upon collision, felt fine.   No, none of this was making any sense to him.  In spite of trying to push harder, Napoleon’s pace kept distancing him.

 

Abruptly, he heard a splash and Napoleon's shout.  He looked at the moss-ladened trees and low brush that immediately surrounded them, suddenly aware that they were off the road and in the woods.  When did that happen?  More importantly, where was his partner?

 

"Napoleon?"

 

"Illya, stop, don't come any closer!"

 

Illya started slowly towards the voice, feeling his feet and legs engulfed in water.  An obliging bolt of lightning lit the sky, and Illya could see his partner splashing furiously to keep his head above water.  He waded further out, feeling the marsh sucking at his feet, pulling him down, keeping him from his friend.

The water was chest deep on the Russian, and Napoleon's splashing was growing less vigorous when Illya's outstretched hand brushed Napoleon's fingertips.  Inching forward until he had a firm grasp on Solo's arm, he tugged back, guiding the dark-haired agent into a shallow area where he could pull himself out.

 

Exhausted, Napoleon collapsed on the ground, and Illya flopped down beside him, coughing out a mouthful of swamp water.  Only the gods knew what he was going to catch from that.

 

"Napoleon, I've never seen you panic like that in water,” he said, once his lungs were clear enough to talk.  “It’s second nature to you; how did you manage to get so far out without noticing where you were?"

 

Napoleon raised his head and wiped off his face.  "If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh?"

 

"On my grandmother's grave."  Illya sat up and rested his head upon his good knee.  “Providing she dies and is buried within the next few moments.”

 

"I could have sworn I was on firm ground, when all of a sudden it was like something just grabbed my feet and started dragging me down."

 

"That was the mud from the marsh.  I felt it myself.  Maybe it was just a quagmire, and the ground cover kept you up until you hit a weak spot."

 

"No, I mean it felt like something had hold of my legs and was pulling me down."

 

"Napoleon! And you call me imaginative."  Illya examined Napoleon’s trouser legs. “Well, if it was an alligator, it was a neat one.  Your pants aren’t even torn.”  He slapped Solo’s closest leg.  “Or maybe he just realized that he had a mouthful and knew when to quit.”

 

"Never mind that," Napoleon said, directing his attention to a spot over Illya's right shoulder.  "What do you make of that?"

 

Glowing eerily through the driving rain, a house, entirely lit, beckoned to them.

 

"I would have sworn that wasn't there a moment ago."

 

"It's there now, and I'd certainly hate to have to pay the electricity bill for tonight's party."

 

"Perhaps they will take pity on two half-drowned UNCLE agents."  Painfully, Illya got to his feet.

 

 

 

Their progress was slow.  Illya's knee was aching, and while he was careful not to complain, he knew Napoleon was aware if only due to the slowing of his usual killing pace.  The climb also grew steadily uphill, and the dense undergrowth seemed intent upon further slowing their progress.  Branches slapped at them, drawing tears as they made contact with over-sensitive, too-cold cheeks.  Only the warm glow of the house kept them moving at all.

 

Finally, they cleared the woods and looked at it sitting upon the knoll, cut off by a steep wall so that only the upper most rooms were visible.

 

"Obviously, one of your more security-minded individuals," Napoleon said, slapping the wall with his hand. 

 

"I just hope he's not the savage-attack-dog type too," Illya muttered, chafing his hands.  "You'd better let me boost you up."  He leaned up against the wall, bracing himself.

 

“Are you sure?  Your knee…”

 

“Is fine, Napoleon.  Now hurry up before we both freeze to death.”

 

Napoleon waited for Illya to make a step with his hand and thigh and then used it to get up on the Russian's shoulders.  Illya barely suppressed a groan as his partner’s weight came down upon his shoulders.

 

"My god, Napoleon, the doctors are right, you are putting on weight.  When are you going on a diet?  You're killing me."

 

"Speaking of such, there's a graveyard on the other side."  Napoleon held onto the top of the wall, hefting some of the weight off the slender Russian.

 

"Nothing strange about that,” Illya voice was strained. “Many early American homes had their own private cemeteries, although I did not envision picking my way through one this evening. Do you see any dogs?"

 

"No, they must be asleep or at the party."

 

 "You're filling me with confidence.  Are you finished up there?"

 

Napoleon jumped down and pointed a finger to the left. "I saw a break about twenty feet that way."  He paused as Illya, rubbing a shoulder, pushed his way past and headed towards the opening. Napoleon waited for a moment then trailed after.

 

"My father used to take my mother to graveyards so they could be alone.  Since they both lived at home and had no friends with apartments, it was the only way they could have any privacy,” Napoleon spoke to his partner’s back.

 

"Talk about your cheap dates."  Illya glanced briefly over his shoulder before returning his attention to his footing.

 

"It was a matter of discretion," Napoleon argued, picking his own way through the tangled underbrush. "Anyway, one morning Mom woke up with a pain in her shoulder and asked her sister to take a look.  Aunt Maria said she could see nothing wrong, but Mom’s back had died in 1882."

 

“Oh, Napoleon…”

 

“Sorry, just trying to cut the tension.” 

 

Illya stopped, pausing before a grave, and dug out a penlight from an inner pocket.  "Hey, Napoleon, listen to this.  'Here lies Kenneth Monkeith.  He choked himself to death in a fit of rage.'  How does one choke himself?"

 

"Probably means he committed suicide.  You know how folks love to play with words."  Then Napoleon's voice trailed off, only to return, the pitch of it disturbing Illya.  "Illya, could you send that beam over this way?"

 

Illya complied, confused by the tone.  "Of course, what did you find?  A pornographic headstone?"  He took a cautious step towards his partner until he himself could make out the words chiseled into the granite.

 

“'Here lies Napoleon Solo, able to save all but himself, laid to rest October 31, the year of our Lord...'  That’s tonight, Napoleon, and somehow this isn't as entertaining as some of your jokes."

 

"If you think this one isn't funny, try the one next to it."  He pointed to the gravestone and read, "'Here lies the broken body of Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin, the last of his blood spilt upon the night of October 31,' etc."

 

"If this is a joke, I am not amused."

 

"Nor am I, especially with the open graves behind each stone.  I would suggest we approach the house with all means of wild abandon open to us."

 

"I fully concur."

 

Swiftly, but without running, Napoleon found an overgrown path and wound his way up to the porch of the old house. Taking the steps two at a time, he climbed up and knocked on the door.

 

As his fist fell, all the lights in the house went out.

 

"Perhaps they weren't feeling up to any more company," Illya volunteered, knocking himself.

 

 Abruptly, the door was jerked open, but no one was there.

 

Wordless, both men drew their Walther P-38s and, at Napoleon's signal, entered.  All of Illya's instincts were screaming at him, telling him to run from this house.  However, he followed Napoleon without a moment's hesitation.

 

"So, where is everybody?” he asked, squinting into the darkness.

 

Napoleon brushed a cobweb from his face with an arm, his eyes attempting to penetrate the dark.  "You still got that penlight?"

 

"Here."  Illya passed it over, tightening his grip on the butt of his Walther.

 

"Nobody's been in here for years."  The small beam revealed layers of dust, and the spiders had done their worst. Dense heavy webs hung ponderously from every surface.

 

"But the lights, we both saw them."

 

"Must have been a trick played by the lightning."  Napoleon’s voice was still confident, still strong and reassuring.

 

The door slammed shut behind them on the wings of a strong, deathly cold wind.  "Or something…well, since we're in, can we find a fireplace?  I'm frozen."  Illya lifted a foot and shook it. "I, for one, could stand getting dry."

 

"All right." Napoleon holstered his gun.  "I'll see what I can find down here.  Why don't you see if you can find some blankets or something upstairs?"

 

"It's the 'something' in that sentence that bothers me."

 

"Illya, this is a perfectly normal, deserted, probably haunted house.  So, why don't you go and see what you can scare up?"

 

"There are several other words that would suffice just as well."  Illya took a step and stumbled.  "Could I have my flashlight back, please?"

 

"What am I suppose to use?"

 

"It's not my fault you left yours in the bottom of Tokyo Harbor."

 

 

Pausing every few steps to wipe away the cobwebs and layers of dust, Illya carefully made his way up the dark staircase, after relenting and giving Napoleon their only source of illumination.  Illya tested each step before allowing all his weight to be borne by the old wood, wincing each time his left leg was strained.  Damn, his knee hurt, but he tried to disregard the thought and concentrate on his task.  He didn’t usually have so much trouble transcending physical pain.  It was like hunger and exhaustion, mere trifles when it came to his job.  Yet, for some reason, he couldn’t escape the stabs of pain that shot through the leg tonight. 

 

Illya pushed open a door and coughed as the motion swirled up clouds of dust in the stale air.  But it did have its rewards as a brief flash of lightning revealed a linen closet of sorts. True, the blankets weren't in the best of condition, but they would be dry and warm.  He gathered up an armful and began to retrace his way back to Napoleon.

 

He hesitated and looked over his shoulder in an attempt to shake off the feeling of being watched.  But he was alone, wasn't he?  Years of training had honed his survival instincts.  They were all screaming at him to run and take cover, but a door pulled at him, drawing him closer with each breath.  Illya set down the blankets and moved cautiously to it, grateful for the weight of the gun in his right hand.

 

The door swung open as he approached, and a cold wind swept forth to embrace him in an unsettling caress.  He shivered, frowning.  "Hello?  Is anyone here?" he asked, his voice echoing in the blackness.

 

It was a bedroom, he could tell that from the light afforded by the bluish glow of the lightening outside.  Then, something moved, passing in front of the window.  Illya aimed his gun, and he was suddenly grabbed and clawed at.  He fought, struggling against his unseen foe.

 

A bolt of lightning illuminated the room, and Illya cried out involuntarily when he saw what was clinging to him.  With a super human effort, he freed himself and ran from the room, tripping over the blankets in the hallway.  The pain that shot through his leg returned his composure, and he sat for a moment to calm his breathing.

 

"Hey, Illya," he heard Napoleon's voice, distant and calm, but curious.  "Is everything okay up there?"

 

"It's fine."  Illya hurriedly scooped up the blankets, not pausing to see what closed the bedroom door behind him.

 

Napoleon stood at the bottom of the staircase, the beam from the light focused up towards the second floor.

 

"What happened?  I heard you shouting."  Napoleon shined the light on him.  "Your clothes, your shirt’s shredded.  What happened and...”  Napoleon coughed and made a face. “That smell…what have you been wading in, old friend?"

 

"I think I may have found the owner of this place."

 

"Dead?"

 

"As badly decomposed as he was, it's better that way."

 

"Did you have to dance with the body?"

 

Illya thought hard, his mind trying to piece together the incident just moments before. "It...was hanging from the rafters up there, I walked into it.  Surprised the hell out of me."

 

"So I heard."  Napoleon took the blankets from him and gestured him onward. "I got a fire going in there.  Let's get you out of those clothes.  Maybe we can burn them before we start on the furniture."

 

 

 

Illya gratefully warmed his hands against the blaze of the fire.  "You'd make a great Boy Scout, Napoleon."  He smiled at his partner.  "Your mother must have been proud."

 

"Not if she'd known that breaking and entering were among my many other talents."  Napoleon swung a chair against the floor, shattering it.  "Along with purposeful intent to damage other people's property.  She'd have taken a branch to me."

 

"Oh, he doesn't mind."  Illya waved his hand in the direction of the staircase.

 

Napoleon laughed and added the wood to the fire.  "There’s not much of a draw coming through that chimney.   Maybe something's blocking it."  Carefully, he shoved the poker up the flue, ramming it ineffectively against the obstruction.  “There’s something up there all right.

 

"Let me try."  Illya took the rod from the man and repeated the action.

 

The body, blackened by the smoke and soot of the fire, fell with a force that scattered blazing wood over the area in front of the hearth.

 

Illya, taken by surprise, swore in Russian and jumped back.

 

"Come on, Illya, don't go soft on me."  Napoleon grabbed a blanket and began to beat out the spreading flames.

 

After a moment's hesitation, Illya joined him, and together, they managed to put the fire out before it could do much damage.

 

Napoleon took a sidelong look at the crumpled form on the floor and threw his blanket over it.  "Grab the other end, we can't leave him here."  When Illya didn't move, the older agent shook his head.  "Illya, what’s eating you tonight?  It’s not like you haven’t seen a dead body before.  Besides, he's dead; he's not going to bite you."

 

"In this place, I'm not so sure."  But he stooped and awkwardly hefted up his end of the bundle.

 

They were about to set it down when Illya abruptly let go, a look of confusion on his face.  The blanket fell back to reveal the grinning face of the cadaver.

 

 "What in the name of God made you do that?"  Napoleon lowered his end carefully.

 

"It moved."

 

"I didn't feel anything.  Besides, after having been stuffed in that chimney all these years, it would be reasonable to expect some sort of involuntary movement."

 

Illya smiled weakly at him and nodded.  "Of course." Then he shivered.

 

"Come, we'd better get out of these wet clothes." Napoleon sunk down onto a moth-eaten couch close to the fireplace and began a struggle with getting off his shoes.

 

"This place is getting on my nerves.  It’s like every nerve in my body is on edge.  They should use something like this to train the new agents." Illya stripped off his shirt and then his pants. Without thinking, he re-strapped his holster on, sucking in a breath as the cold leather and steel contacted warm skin.

 

"Expecting trouble?"  Napoleon was obviously amused by the action.

 

"I don't know.  There's something here that just doesn’t figure.  Don’t you feel it?   I do—in the pit of my stomach."

 

"I warned you about that chili."

 

"Not that type of feeling, Napoleon."

 

Napoleon padded up, securely wrapped in a faded, moth-damaged blanket. "I'm serious, Illya.  What could happen?"

 

"Too many things.  I just can’t shake the feeling that we're not alone."

 

"There's no one here except him." Solo hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the lump.  "And the guy upstairs."

 

"Just because we haven't seen anyone, it doesn't mean we're alone.  I've wanted to go in five different directions since we got here.  Haven't you felt it?"

 

"No, Illya, I haven't.  There's nothing to worry about...."   He trailed off at the sound of scratching on the hallway door.

 

"I'm not worried in the least," Illya replied, deadpan.  "But I would suggest getting something to prop against that door.  They have a bad habit of flying open by themselves."

 

"They do not open of their own volition, old friend," Napoleon argued, taking a step closer to the door, and the scratching intensified as if in response.  "Some things do follow certain courses of logic."

 

In obvious disagreement, the door kicked open and in poured a mass of withering, squeaking, red-eyed rodents.

 

"Rats," Illya shouted, looking for something to throw at them.  Napoleon disappeared beneath the surging, squirming bodies.  Without thinking, Illya emptied a round into the ceiling.  As abruptly as they came, they were gone.

 

Solo sat up and looked around the room, confused, as Illya knelt beside him, wincing at the pressure on his knee.  He brushed the blanket aside, and nimble fingers searched for wounds.

 

"There's nothing.  You looked like you were slated to be a TV dinner for those rats, and there's not a scratch on you."  Illya sat back on his heels.  "I warned you about the doors."

 

"I've never seen anything like that."  Napoleon rubbed his arms reflectively.

 

"Tell me about it.  Napoleon, at the first sign of this rain letting up, I'd like to leave."

 

"An admirable idea…"  He held up his hand for silence.

 

Above the storm came another sound, a tinkling melody, the tune almost discernible.

 

"What in the name of God is that?  I'm going to check this out."  Napoleon scrambled into his pants as Illya reached for his shirt.  He stopped and looked at the Russian with a long, confused expression.

 

“What’s wrong?

 

“My pants are dry.”

 

“They were by the fire.”

 

“Five minutes, Illya, they were by the fire for five minutes and look at your shirt.”

 

“I told you what happened upstairs.”

 

“No, I mean, really look at it – it’s fine, like it’s brand new, just out of the package.”

 

“Impossible, I bought this shirt in…Gdansk…two years ago.” 

 

The tinkling noise surged slightly in volume as if impatient to be discovered.  Slowly, Napoleon pulled on his trousers, as if worried that they’d suddenly attack him.  "You know, of course, nobody will believe us back at HQ.  They'll probably commit us to some rest facility for a nice long stay."

 

"If we make it through the night, I might just welcome that. This is what happens from not taking enough vacation time."

 

"I shall have a long, intimate talk with Mr. Waverly the moment we return to New York."  Napoleon fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

 

Illya pulled on his pants, biting a lip as he bent his knee.  He stopped to examine it in the light afforded by the fireplace, surprised by the lack of discoloration and swelling.  How could it hurt so much and look just fine?  It made no sense, but he was starting to get used to that.

 

"You ready?"  Napoleon drew his gun, checking the clip.

 

"Da, da."  Illya forced his last boot on and stood.  He pulled extra clips from his jacket, pausing to replace the spent one from his gun and then disregarded the coat.

 

Napoleon eased out of the room, glancing uneasily around in the blue-white light of the storm that still raged from without.

 

"The music is coming from over there."  A distant door relinquished a narrow strip of light from beneath it. "Maybe now we'll find out what this is all about."

 

Napoleon led the way across the entry hall and tried the knob while Illya kept his energies focused upon the shadows for any hint of movement.

 

The door opened, revealing a room ablaze with brightness and set up for a party.  The paper streamers, now yellowed with age, hung limply from the corners of the long room.  The food that had been set out was now desiccated beneath a layer of dust.  Around the once elegantly laid table were the guests, or rather what was left of them. They had obviously been there for a long time, judging from their advanced state of decay.  In fact, all that was holding any of them together was tightly stretched grey skin.

 

"They certainly waited a long time for dessert.  I hate people who can't take a hint."

 

"Someone sure has a macabre sense of humor."  Illya tucked the Walther into the waistband of his pants and cautiously approached the table, keeping a careful distance from the nearest body.

 

"Looks like a birthday party."  Napoleon reached up to touch a faded, deflated balloon before gesturing to a grey cake, the wax candles lit.  “Remember the gravestone?  If you thought that was strange, read this." 

 

"'Happy 7th Birthday, Illya.'  This isn't funny. Are those corpses supposed to be my family?"  He toyed with a present.  The paper crumbled at his touch, and he lifted the lid to the box, removing a fire truck.  "I had something just like this when I was growing up.

 

“Whoever is doing this certainly did their research."

 

"A genius..."

 

"A madman,” Solo corrected as Illya tossed the truck back down onto the table top.

 

 "But genius all the same.  He did, however, make a few mistakes."

 

"Such as?"  Napoleon abandoned the table and began to prowl the room.

 

 "For one thing, the wording on the cake is in English. My parents couldn't speak or write a word of it. Secondly, the candles on the cake should either be lumps of melted wax or not lit at all.  Wonder what else he got wrong."

 

"How about equipping this place with a fully automatic kitchen?"

 

Limping painfully, Illya joined Napoleon at a doorway and peered over the man's shoulder.

 

The kitchen, stainless steel and glistening, with every available surface polished to a gleaming brilliance, was in conflict to everything he'd seen so far.  As his partner flicked an on/off switch to the florescent lights, Illya tried to make heads or tails out of what was happening to them.  Nothing was making sense—this had to be some sort of crazy THRUSH trap.  Maybe they were trying to drive them crazy or send the two UNCLE agents at each other's throats.

 

"All the comforts of home," Napoleon muttered as he explored the refrigerator.

 

"You lived in a better neighborhood than me," Illya corrected.  "None of my neighbors had Victorian furniture."   He jerked a head towards the bounty of food crammed into the freezer.  "You think it's poisoned?"

 

"I wouldn't imagine so.  The mind that thought this all up has had a dozen opportunities to pick us off.  Why bother poisoning the food?"  He, however, left the food untouched.  "It appears there's something in the oven."

 

Sure enough, it was emitting a dim glow from within.

 

"Why don't you see what's on tonight's menu?"

 

"No thanks.  With all that's happened, it might just be me in there.  If you're so interested, you look.  I'm leaving."

 

Illya marched as purposefully as he could while still favoring his knee to the closed kitchen door and reached for the knob.  It was warm and moist.  He yanked his hand back reflexively and glared down at the offending party.  The knob's countenance had changed from cold brass to that of a lurid face, which eyed him and lapped its salivating lips obscenely.

 

He swore in Russian and wiped his hand on his pants, backing away in revulsion.  "Napoleon, come here please."

           

His partner hurried to his side, glancing down at the plain brass doorknob.

 

"What?"

 

"It was..."  Illya scrutinized it and then Napoleon and then back to the door.  “It was…alive.”

 

"Illya, your imagination is seriously running away with you now.  I know things here are weird, but there’s a logical explanation for everything that’s happened tonight.”  Napoleon teased him gently, grasping the knob firmly.  His face contorted, and he yelled, jamming the hand beneath an armpit.  "It bit me!"  He held up a palm displaying a neat circle of teeth marks.

 

"First time my imagination ever bit anyone.  Now can we leave?"

 

"I hate over-staying my welcome."  The door swung open obligingly, and Napoleon crossed the dining room while Illya trailed behind.

 

"It's locked," Napoleon reported over his shoulder at the hobbling Russian.

 

"I'm not terribly surprised," Illya muttered, his attention caught by the scraping of chairs. He watched, horrified but fascinated, as ancient heads swiveled in his direction.  "Now, I'm surprised."

 

He jerked his gun free of his waistband and aimed.  "If I shoot a corpse, can I be found guilty of murder?"

 

 "What?"  Napoleon looked back over his shoulder and made a face.  "Only if it's premeditated."  He began an earnest attempt at the door.

 

 "Napoleon, try pushing it."

 

 "I did that coming in."

 

"Don't argue with me!"  Illya's voice raised an octave as he fired at the rising corpses, but the bullets passed through them to lodge harmlessly in furniture.

 

 Napoleon shoved, and it yielded to his weight, permitting a bitterly cold wind to rush past.  He gestured to the front door, but as they ran for it, there came a clanging and bars fell across it, keeping them from leaving.  A rumbling, like a great animal's roar, sounded as shutters threw themselves closed against the intruders.

 

"This would be a good time for one of your daring escapes, especially since I have no wish to end up like the rest of the people here," Illya suggested from Napoleon's side.

 

"I came up with the daring rescue last time.  It's your turn."

 

The dining room door opened, and the first of the corpses came stumbling out.  The house sprang into brightness, every shadow illuminated, revealing their grisly secrets.  Doors began to fling themselves open, and the long dead occupants of the house jerked themselves to their feet.

 

 Napoleon picked off the one closest to him; it had been propped up in a chair and was preparing to chew on his hand.  "Okay, fine; one daring rescue coming up, but it's your turn to write the report."

 

"If anyone asks what we did tonight, I'll lie," Illya reassured, hefting a vase and throwing it towards the advancing army.

 

"You keep our gruesome companions at bay.  I'm going to make a door."

 

"Just hurry, will you?  I'm running out of furniture." He wielded a coat rack as an over-sized sword.

 

Napoleon calmly but quickly unwound a length of string from his shirt's third button and popped up his watch crystal, revealing a small, but powerful explosive charge.  Illya didn't need to watch to know what Napoleon was doing.  He heard Solo's shout of "Heads!" and threw himself aside.

 

The charge took out a large portion of the wall, along with several of the closest corpses.  Illya waved Napoleon through and took one last shot at the encroaching army before diving through the hole.  He nearly cleared it when his left leg was grasped by bony fingers, the sharpened tips digging into his flesh.

 

"Napo…" he cried as they started to pull him back.

 

His partner grabbed an arm in a life-or-death tug of war over the Russian.

 

Abruptly, Illya's leg was given a stomach-turning wrench, and the blond was freed, tumbling into Napoleon's arms.

 

"Hey," he heard Napoleon's familiar voice.  "You okay?"

 

"Yes, of course."  Illya glanced up at his partner and saw what was really holding him, and he began to scream.

 

 "Hey, Illya, you okay?"

 

Illya Kuryakin woke with a start and a cry on his lips. He closed his eyes and sank back into the airplane seat, even while Napoleon's dark brown eyes watched him with concern.  A hand rested on his shoulder, and Illya was all too conscious of his own trembling.

 

"The Captain just flashed on the 'Fasten Your Seatbelts' sign, so I thought I should wake you up.  Looks like it was just in time."

 

"Thanks."  Illya shifted from his slump and blinked his eyes.  He glanced around the cabin of UNCLE’s private jet and then down at the magazine lying open upon his lap, catching his breath at the sight of the same house from his dream.  Well, at least he knew where it came from.

 

"Nice place."  Napoleon tapped the glossy page.  "But I'd prefer the Bronx.  The cemetery in the front yard is a bit too down home for my tastes.  Are you planning a visit down South? I hear Kentucky is nice this time of year."

 

"No," Illya answered hastily, stuffing the periodical back into the pouch in front of him and shut his eyes in pain as he shifted his left knee.

 

"How's the leg?"  The action wasn't wasted on his partner.

 

"It hurts…a lot."  Illya now knew why he was limping, why his leg felt heavy and weighted down in his dreams—his entire left leg up to his hip was encumbered by a heavy cast.

 

"It should.  You must have been whacking the hell out of the seat in front of you.  Look at those gouges on the cast."

 

 

                                             


End file.
